My daughter, myself..

Today, my daughter's class went to their Holiday Shop to buy things for their families for Christmas. I told her to get something for the grandparents and she could spend the leftover change.

She's a good girl. She did as I requested. She got what I asked her to get for the grandparents. But her gift for herself kind of surprised me. It was a pen, but not just any old pen. Remember those 4-in-1 pens? The ones with the red, blue, green and black inks? Yep, she got one of those. Just like I used to when I was her age. I even had a pen with 24 different colored inks. It was huge!

I guess I shouldn't be shocked. The girl has had a love affair with pens and paper since she was a baby. She's "written" a few books and is always coming up with stories and plays. Scarily, she reminds me of myself at her age. Except I was a frustrated non-writer trying so desperately to write. That never worked out, but I found I could turn my stories into pictures and I turned from frustrated writer-wannabe to an artist and never looked back.

Ok, that's not true. I have looked back. I've always wished I could write. Really write. Tell stories that would move and inspire others, weave a spell with my words, all of that good stuff. But I've kinda sorta accepted that that isn't likely to happen any time in the forseeable future. I've channeled my obsession with paper and pen into, well, an obsession with paper, drawing pens, and other various art supplies.

She hasn't given up on the writing. I'm happy about that. She's certainly a creative child with an abstract mind and I can't wait to see the stories she'll write one day. But I have noticed that she seems to be drawing more and more lately. It's like deja vu....almost.